


A Sunset Bird in Winter

by OhAine



Series: The Frost Collection [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Longing, Post TAB, Sherlolly - Freeform, Strong Molly, Virgin Sherlock, mollock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 05:55:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6362083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhAine/pseuds/OhAine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's safer, she thinks, to believe that he lied, than to wonder if he told the truth when he begged for her forgiveness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sunset Bird in Winter

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Frost's 'Looking for a sunset bird in winter' and by my dear friend K's love of the Dylan classic 'Don't think twice, it's alright' 
> 
> Beta'd by the ever patient, loving and supportive MaybeItsJustMyType, without whose encouragement I wouldn't have posted this fic.
> 
> I own nothing...

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

She doesn’t doubt that it was Mycroft who sent the car for her.

 

While The British Government himself is nowhere to be seen, Molly sees his fingerprints on every part of this. Absent though he may be for now, Mycroft Holmes is not the kind of man to suddenly decide, after all his efforts to save his baby brother, that Sherlock can suddenly be trusted to care for himself the way that he should.

 

Although it’s clear that the eldest Holmes is paying the price for Moriarty’s return, it’s equally clear that he still has friends in powerful places. Which is how Molly finds herself on the doorstep of 221B Baker Street on a bitterly cold March morning, less than three months after this whole disaster began to take shape.

 

Martha ushers her through, coos and fusses over her, all the while looking light years older than the last time Molly saw her.

 

That was months ago, after Tom and before Janine, back when she was a frequent late night visitor to Sherlock’s flat, back when, back when-

 

She refuses to think about that now.

 

It’s subtle, she thinks, the changes they’ve made. But to an eye trained for detail, it’s all so obvious. Martha can come and go as she pleases, but there’s a biometric unit that reads her every time she, or anyone else, passes it. At the top of the stairs there’s a new door to Sherlock’s flat, one with a lock; the key held by the ‘not one of Mycroft’s men’ who is on permanent duty outside. She can enter, he says, but her bag and coat have to stay outside.

 

Molly’s chest deflates. Her Linus-blanket-bag-and-coat are taken away, and she feels stripped of her protection. He has difficulty seeing her, always has, and she prays that this time will be no different.

 

When the door is opened, she is allowed to pass through. Taking stock of her surroundings, her heart skips a beat. This isn’t a prison cell, but nor is he free.

 

It’s likely that a pardon for the murder of Charles Augustus Magnussen is imminent, despite Mycroft’s deficient control. Governments do that sort of thing, don’t they? When someone has served their Queen and Country, and that service has come at great personal cost? That’s the point of this house arrest, isn’t it? Incremental freedom?

 

This isn’t the solitary confinement of that first week, not the controlled pseudo-liberty of the ones that followed while he worked to solve the Moriarty problem, but a halfway house between the two.

 

Everything looks the same as the last time she was here. Well, almost everything. For reasons that she immediately understands, the stiletto that had pierced the mantelpiece is gone and there are wires threaded around the windows, motion sensors, she assumes. There is no mobile phone, no laptops, no internet access, instead he has books - there's a volume of poetry, Frost, open on his desk - access to the rest of the world is being carefully controlled. His watch sits on the arm of his chair instead of worn around his wrist – she knows why that is too – he is frequently handcuffed while his ‘ _security’_ detail make drug and weapon sweeps; he is, after all, an addict and a murderer. The former is a technicality, well, as much as it is for anyone who lives with a drug habit. The same can be said now also of the latter, it was sanctioned, retrospectively at least, by The British Government after all.

 

But his Strad rests on the battered leather couch and on the stand in front of the window there is sheet music, Sherlock’s messy scrawl covering every inch of it.

 

She crosses the room and stands before it.

 

One page, almost hidden from view behind the others, has a title that is partially obscured, _‘For M’_ is all she can read, so she extends her hand to push aside the offending pages.

 

Long fingers, elegant, porcelain, grip her wrist before she can reach the sheet. The calloused tips hold her there, hovering inches above the stand. It's so long since she has been touched by another human being that when his skin makes contact with hers it feels like an electric current has passed through her.

 

“Stop,” his voice is raspy, like there’s shards of broken glass in his throat. There’s a pause and then, “Please?”

 

Sherlock. Sherlock, who could never disguise his heart when he played, Sherlock who poured every hidden part of himself in to the pieces he wrote, stands behind her, his breath hot and damp on the downy nape of her neck, holding her back from seeing him dissected and exposed one note at a time.

 

His presence towers over her, surrounds her, something that has nothing to do with stature or his strong, broad chest.

 

The hairs on the back of her arms, her neck, stand on end. He always has this effect on her. Always.

 

It was no surprise then, that when he sent for her – after Magnussen and before his 4 minute exile – they ended up fucking against the wall of his prison cell. He’d known it would happen. The guard had been paid to give them privacy and a prophylactic, one that in the heat of the moment and in their desperation for each other had gone unused. Rucking up her skirt around her waist and lifting, he pinned her against the wall. His trousers unzipped, he had pushed them to mid-thigh and guided himself inside her. The act itself was over quickly. Throwing his head back and arching his neck, she could feel him spilling his seed inside her less than a minute after they began. He came with a strangled shout, pounding against her erratically, riding out his orgasm before stilling. With his fingers curled tightly on her hip he pressed against her, gulping air into his lungs, his damp face resting against hers, before becoming soft and slipping from her body, still shaking.

 

That was three months ago, the last time they had seen each other. The desperation of imminent loss has left them now, and yet, _and yet_ , his proximity to her, the nearness of him brings every sensation, every sound, rushing back to her.

 

For moments they stay that way, frozen, before he breaks the silence.

 

“Thank you for coming,” his grip on her loosens as he guides her, gently, to turn around.

 

Facing each other at last, their eyes meet, and all of the air rushes from her lungs only to be replaced by hot coals. Molly thinks that she could suffocate just from his stare.

 

His fingers slip from her wrist and Molly realises that she’s trying so hard to stay still that it’s causing her to shake.

 

Kaleidoscopic eyes, colours shifting constantly, warm hues of green, gold and brown at war with the ice cold and penetrating blue and grey, they watch as she composes herself, clams herself down.

 

 _Does he see?_ It’s infuriating, but she can’t be sure.

 

“’S alright, I wanted to.” She perpetuates the illusion of free will in the matter. After all, when had she ever refused Sherlock anything?

 

“Please, sit,” he glides from the room, gesturing to John’s chair as he passes into the kitchen and retrieves the tea tray that he meticulously prepared before her arrival using his best china.

 

That makes her want to smile. His favourite mug, the one with blue stripes, the kind you make builders tea in, would have been her first choice – as it was on so many mornings, rushing away to work, after…after.

 

An uncomfortable silence prevails as Sherlock pours tea, made with loose leaves, and passed through a strainer. Just like her Mum would have made for visiting dignitaries that she wanted to impress.

 

Sherlock nervously plays with his spoon, Molly politely sips her Earl Grey.

 

Without conscious thought she finds that no matter on what object she settles her gaze, it always drifts back to his lips. It’s unsettling that he appears to be experiencing the same lack of control over where his eyes travel to; they’re resting now on the beauty mark just below her jaw. She wonders if he’s recalling how it tasted when she was beneath him, as he sucked and bit at her salty-sweet skin. That line of thought, in turn, bringing to mind how his lips felt in the concavity of her throat, how he sounded when he whispered, _‘I love you.’_

 

A sharp dagger of reality causes her to wonder if he said those same words to his fiancée. She reasons that he must: Because honestly, no one in their right mind would accept a ring from a man who hadn’t told her he loved her first, and if he could lie to Janine, he could lie to her too. It's safer, she thinks, to believe he lied, than to wonder if he told the truth when he begged for her forgiveness. It's safer than to think about how his body felt in her arms when they made love, than to believe him when he said that Janine and he had never-

 

The truth that’s proven so difficult to acknowledge, to come to terms with, is that she had lost him long before his one way mission to Eastern Europe.

 

Her mind races, searching in futility for a suitable topic of conversation, anything to take away the uncomfortable silence and the senselessness of treading over old and worn ground. The air in her lungs is getting hot and painful once again, and she finds she has to focus, concentrate, to remember to breathe.

 

Loneliness rolls off him in palpable waves; it doesn’t take a deductive genius to see that. She can’t ask about John, that much is obvious. He and Sherlock haven’t spoken in weeks, Greg told her as much the last time he had come to her morgue, and Molly’s heart breaks because of the estrangement caused by John’s refusal to accept that what happened to Mary wasn’t Sherlock’s fault, that there are some things even the Holmes brothers can’t control.

 

Likewise Mycroft. While Sherlock doesn’t blame himself for Mary, he most certainly does burden himself with responsibility for what has happened to his sibling. And uncharitable as the thought may be, Molly knows he should. He absolutely should feel the weight of the chain of events that he, and he alone, set in motion.

 

But if reports are to be believed, he’s learned and grown from it. It’s almost Shakespearian, the younger brother only becoming the man he should be when the elder’s protective hand is taken away.

 

So with all other avenues closed, she settles on a safe topic, “You look well.”

 

“As do you,” his hesitation is only brief, “pregnancy suits you.” There’s trepidation in his voice, but something very soft and wistful too, “You're positively glowing, Molly.”

 

Well.

 

In true Molly Hooper style, she had walked straight into the one thing she was attempting to avoid at all costs.

 

“May I- ” clearing his now gravel filled throat he begins again, “May I ask about the child?”

 

She ignores the pretence of an option, and stands. Nothing can stop him from asking, but that doesn’t mean she has to endure what he’s about to say. She can leave. She knows he can’t follow.

 

“You won’t realise that it’s insulting to ask, so I’ll save you the embarrassment, but yes of course it’s yours, and yes I’m keeping it.”

 

Sherlock’s lips part and his eyes flutter.

 

By the time there’s enough air in the room to push her name past his lips, she’s left the flat and the door has been locked behind her.

 

* * *

 

 

With hands clenched and shaking in his lap, he waits. Though he’s wearing gloves, the nervous tremor is still visible.

 

On his first day of freedom (albeit supervised- the agent, though discreet, is never fully out of view), he is granted a very public meeting with Molly.

 

A wooden bench, on a city street, in the freezing cold, may not be the most suitable place to have this conversation, but he doesn’t exactly have many options. It’s likely that she chose a public venue on purpose and not merely because it was convenient. Likely too that it was more instinct than well thought out reasoning. Molly Hooper, of all people, should understand that he’s more than capable of making a scene in public.

 

It doesn’t matter that it's about to snow, and that every passing stranger can hear what he has to say. He’s grateful enough to be out-of-doors that it doesn't particularly matter where he is.

 

From where he sits he can see the footpath outside of Bart’s where he once lay, playing dead, while John tried desperately to reach for his hand, crying, heartbroken, ‘ _He’s my friend_.’

 

It’s not likely he’ll ever hear those words, from that particular person, ever again.

 

Distracted, he almost doesn’t notice Molly approach, her demeanour so much softer than the last time he saw her. Less defensive now the truth is out and she has nothing to try to hide from him.

 

“Black, two sugars,” there’s something of self amusement in her words, but he can’t quite tell why.

 

“Thank you,” he’s grateful that his hand is almost steady when he takes the Costa take-away cup from her. “Molly?”

 

“Look,” her expression is determined, her voice a little wobbly - the sound sending the butterflies in his gut into free fall, “I know I should tell you that you have a say in this, but you don’t. No one can make you be happy about this, Sherlock, or even make you be involved. But I am 37 years old, pregnant with the child of the man I- with your child, and I may never, never, have this again. So.” Tipping her chin in a determined fashion, Molly takes a deep breath and nods once, sharply.

 

Looking now at her hands, held tightly around her own cup for warmth, he sees that she too is shaking.

 

Flurries of snow have begun to fall, and, as always, Molly Hooper is unsuitably dressed. She is a creature of Spring - of rebirth and light and warmth - not made for unseasonable cold or snow in April.

 

There’s a protest when he opens his coat and wraps it around them both, but it’s ignored. Taking a glove off, he offers it to her, and when her delicate hand slips safely inside, he takes her un-gloved one in his.

 

Their bodies pressed together for warmth, something in his throat swells and aches.

 

Unbidden, memories flood his mind of the other times he’s held her this way. _Christ_ , how desperately he misses her. The nearness of her makes his mouth dry, makes his pulse beat strongly in his temples. His fingers twitch from wanting to touch her and he struggles to stay in control of himself. It's difficult, but with Molly it always is.

 

He wonders if she realises how beautiful she looks, illuminated in the diffused afternoon light.

 

All at once he's terrified that if today doesn't go well, this could be the very last time he ever sees her. She can do what she likes, she's already free of him, she has his future and that of his child in her hands. The power imbalance has always tipped in her favour; but that's something, he thinks, she’s never known.

 

He sighs heavily. Somehow, it had become known that he had often slept at her flat, less well known – he suspects just Mrs Hudson and Mycroft – was that she had just as often slept at his.

 

Over the course of a glorious summer, Molly Hooper had shared his bed on endless warm nights filled with gentle sighs and helpless sounds of passion. He had given to her, and only her, the one thing that he had sworn to never surrender – powerless to stop himself, but never once afraid of what the submission had implied. He’d allowed the walls of his fortress to fall, not caring for the consequences, and in return she had bestowed her angelic, sweet gifts of love upon him.

 

Foolishly, he'd destroyed it all for a case that has cost him, and those he loves, everything.

 

His breath, when he exhales, fogs in the crystal chill, and like the tendrils of his reminiscences it drifts away on the cold air, “Do you want me to be involved?”

 

“I- ” It’s not a difficult question, but it’s clearly not one she was expecting. Molly pulls back and looks at him curiously, “Are you saying you want to be?”

 

“I’m saying that, yes, I would very much like to be.” He takes a steadying breath, steels himself, “But if you consider it best, for you and the child, that I am not, I will respect your judgement in this matter.”

 

Molly is looking at him, but it’s no longer with curiosity. She looks as though she might cry.

 

“I would understand,” his speech is getting faster, the breakneck speed normally reserved for deductions, but if he doesn’t get this out now, _right now_ , his courage may fail him.

 

Or Molly could walk away.

 

He resists the urge to put his head in his hands and sob. He's just so tired.

 

“I’m not father material, nor husband material for that matter. That doesn’t mean that I can’t aspire to those things, that I’m not capable of learning and adapting, because if there’s one thing that I _do_ know how to do, it’s that. And yes I’ve made mistakes, hundreds in fact, but this isn’t one of them. Nor were you, you and I, for what it may be worth. I make calculated choices, and sometimes, the calculation is wrong, human error, but most of the time it’s been right. I was dying, we were still in love despite everything I’d done, and I was being sent to my death. I had no idea of the lengths Mycroft would go to to save me, there was to be no way back for me this time. So when you were sent for, when you came to me, you can’t possibly think that I didn’t realise that unprotected sex between adults of reproductive age could result in pregnancy.”

 

There he does stop, and Molly slips from beneath his coat to pace on the snowy pavement.

 

“Molly?”

 

Nothing. She stares resolutely ahead into the street.

 

“Molly? Please, sit down?” running his fingers through his hair in frustration, “Please let me finish?”

 

A visceral longing overwhelms him, and he stands, takes her hand. “If that- if there were to be a child, you would not be alone. Part of me could have stayed with you, I would have lived on in some way.”

 

Turning her around to face him, he bows his head. Presses his forehead against hers. Molly holds on to him as though he is an apparition that could disappear at any second.

 

There's a dignity in restrained emotions; now's not the time for that. What he has to say is illogical and it's messy, yet somehow he can't bring himself to care that he's making a fool of himself, pouring sentimental oils on an already uncontrollable flame.

 

“We would have still been together,” his eyes screwed shut, “it may have been winter - this may _still_ be our winter - but our child Molly, our child is the lone leaf on the branch. It’s the hope that someday a renascent summer will come again. Can’t you see that?”

 

Molly thinks so loudly sometimes that he can hear it streets away. It's been weeks since their disastrous meeting at 221B, but badly as it went, it has served a purpose, he can tell its made her think about things she decided to bury deep in the earth the night Mary shot him. She’s deliberating now, putting it all together as he holds her on the snowy street. When she comes to a decision her breathing changes, loosens, and he pulls back, gives her space to walk away if that’s what she’s chosen to do.

 

When he feels brave enough to look at her, her expression is tender. It isn't forgiveness but rather a willingness to forgive that he sees, and it does something to his chest that feels like a giant weight has been dropped on it from a great height. Once again he’s bloodied and broken on the street outside of Bart's.

 

He's bursting apart at the seams with things he wants to say, but all that comes out is, “I have no idea where we begin,” and that’s the honest truth, because for every though he’s had about winning Molly back, he hasn’t once allowed himself to dare to hope he’d succeed.

 

Her touch is shocking and loving and gentle when she reaches to pull his face down to hers. Their lips meet in a chaste kiss, brushing against each other softly and Sherlock feels like he could weep with gratitude.

 

“I don’t know either,” she confides, and they exchange frosty breath when they kiss again – this time there’s something like heat in it and both are reluctant to stop, but he’s on a public street with the soon to be mother of his child so decorum and breeding prevent him from picking her up and taking her right there and then. The texture of her kiss lingers on his lips, and that will have to do for now.

 

Still, the temptation is strong, and the evidence must be written all across his face, because one of her hands idles on the placket of his shirt, whilst the other rests on his chest; the intimacy of the small gesture almost floors him.

 

There's a realisation that they've reached a consensus, of sorts, but it feels like they're under a spell. If he takes his eyes away from her, if he allows her hand to move, the enchantment will be broken and everything will go back to the way it was before.

 

Which is why his breathing becomes short when she steps away, turns back towards Bart's where he hasn't been allowed to follow since- well, since a long time ago.

 

Sherlock reaches for her hand, holds it as though he's on the edge of a precipice and he'll fall if he lets go. The butterflies in his gut have taken flight again, and it's making his head swim.

 

"What's wrong?" When she looks at him, she is almost successful in masking her alarm - almost - and it makes his chest ache.

 

He lets out the breath that's been making his lungs burn. "I- I- "

 

"It's alright," she steps back into his space. He sees that she understands immediately, because for as much as he can never truly read her, she can always, _always_ , read him. "It's just, we can't stay out here on the street forever."

 

Molly looks at him then; there's a vulnerability in her countenance that she hasn't allowed him to see since before this whole mess began, and that somehow allows him to unfurl his fingers and release her.

 

He's relieved to find neither of them disappear, neither of them fall off the edge of some imagined cliff into an abyss.

 

"Come on," she extends her hand, invites him to take it. "It's time I took you in out of the cold."

 


End file.
